


Resolution

by ChristyCorr



Category: Kings
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon, First Time, M/M, New Year's Eve, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You just can't help getting on your knees for anyone in the House of Benjamin, can you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliassmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliassmith/gifts).



> (This is a canon AU in which Silas never confronted David after hearing from God that David was to be the next king; instead he had him imprisoned in the palace, like Jack.)
> 
> Happy Yuletide, aliassmith! I hope you enjoy this ♥

David's reward for saving Silas—again—and giving him back his crown is an inglorious paper-pushing job in the palace. Silas says it's a sensitive, high-clearance position—which in fact means that David cannot set foot outside the palace or have visitors without Silas's say-so.

He spends his days in his bedroom-slash-makeshift-office, biding his time until the situation changes. It's bound to change eventually, of course. David’s faith has never wavered, and he knows he's supposed to learn patience, yielding to the whims of a corrupt, once-blessed king. Plus, Silas's harmless paperwork is also teaching him the inner workings of Gilboan bureaucracy—not the most exciting subject, to be sure, but David has never shied away from potentially useful information, no matter how dull the package it comes in. He understands why God has left him stranded here; accepts it, even—but that doesn't make Silas's many betrayals hurt any less.

David feels himself growing embittered, Silas's degeneration leaving a sour taste in his mouth; deep inside, he's terrified that he might go down the same path someday. After all, Silas had been good and stalwart once. David clings to happy memories of simpler times—his family, his friends in the army, Michelle—and hopes that this will keep his soul from going sour in this wretched place.

Tonight is not the most pleasant of days for positive thoughts—it's New Year's Eve, and David is alone, staring out the window, his thoughts a dark jumble of resentment and disheartened hope.

It's a day when normal people make resolutions, full of plans and expectations for the year to come—but David can't even bring himself to articulate his real hopes. He's no traitor, to wish for a king's ousting, an exile's presence, a treaty’s undoing; he'll remain loyal to Silas until God sees fit to dethrone the king, much though it pains him.

There's a bottle of absinthe on his desk. It’s possible that it's Silas trying a new, circuitous way of getting David killed, of course. But the bottle is allegedly a gift from David's fellow inmate, Jack, who, by now, has surely found a thousand ways to get around Silas's restrictions on his comings and goings.

Well, yes, it probably isn't _just_ a gift. It's bound to be a symbol of something, some subtle gesture of intricate politics that David couldn't possibly understand. He doesn’t even try to work it out. He's so tired of all the fake smiles and half-lies that make up court life—he's tired of pretending that he cares for all this crap, that he’ll ever be able to make sense out of it.

He eyes the bottle like it's a ticking bomb, but takes the chance, because why not: he's been craving an escape from mind-numbing routine for months now, he might as well take this opportunity to forget himself.

He grabs an empty glass from the bathroom and opens the bottle. The unfamiliar taste of absinthe burns as he downs an inch of the stuff in one go; it tastes absolutely vile. He drinks another, hoping the taste will improve. (It doesn't.)

All of a sudden, the bedroom door opens, and in stumbles Jack, an identical bottle in hand. He lifts it to David in a mock salute.

"You're not supposed to," David says, and frowns. No, that didn't make sense; he tries again. "You're under room-arrest, you can't be here."

"Ran away," Jack says, shrugging off his suit jacket. 

He shuts the door and walks to David's unmade bed, plopping down artlessly. He stares at the ceiling, the bottle dangling from his fingers off the edge of the mattress. David's never seen Jack this relaxed—it's confusing. But he decides that he won't think about it, and that he doesn't care. Not tonight. Tonight, David's officially taking a break from caring and worrying and feeling inadequate and lost, so he'll just make conversation.

"They'll find you," he points out, because even David-on-a-break is still David.

"Don't care," Jack says cheerfully, though the glare he's directing at his ankle tracking device says otherwise.

David doesn’t dispute the point. "Why are you here?" he asks instead.

"I gave my _bodyguards_ ," Jack’s voice drips with scorn at the obvious euphemism, "two bottles of absinthe. Great stuff."

"Wait, but you gave me one too," David realises with a frown. "Why—also, where—?"

"Bribed a Secret Service agent for a case of them." Jack rolls onto his side and throws him a lopsided grin, so at odds with his usual behaviour that David just stares. "I've been drunk since lunch. Excellent decision, let me tell you."

"Where's Lucinda?"

"At the party. I think.” A pause. “Fuck Lucinda." 

David doesn't know how to react to that. He'd assumed Lucinda’s presence would at least distract Jack, make his confinement easier on him. Jack doesn't seem all that miserable at the rare official events that Silas orders both his prisoners to attend—he looks every bit as put-together and haughty as ever.

David realises with a jolt that Jack has been more forthcoming than usual tonight—the alcohol's brought down his defences. David cannot in good conscience keep asking him questions. He falls silent at once, fidgeting with the bottle cap to keep himself occupied.

After several minutes, Jack sits up. "You're far too good for this court,” he says. “We're all rotten to the core; what are you still doing here?"

"I don't think _you're_ rotten," David says. Jack snorts, but David angles himself toward him and insists, because this feels important, "You were manipulated by your uncle, but Silas was—is—a bad king. You were trying to do what you thought was best for the country."

"How are you—" Jack runs his fingers through his hair in a rare display of frustration. He’s still not looking at David. "You can't honestly believe that."

"No. I do." David wishes Jack would hear him, would hate himself a little less, just this once—but Jack won't meet his eyes, mind far away, wallowing in misery. David walks to the bed and sits, placing a comforting hand on Jack's shoulder. "I believe there's still much you can do for Gilboa, Jack."

Jack clenches his jaw. "Well, God and I aren't on the best of terms."

"He's always there for you, if you repent and beg forgiveness."

Jack's gaze is fixed on David’s hand touching him. He looks constipated. "There are some sins," he starts, stops. David squeezes his shoulder in encouragement, and Jack forces himself to finish. "There are some sins that God can't forgive."

"I don't think that's true," David says kindly. Silas's God is stubborn—cruel even—but the God David grew up with in his heart would forgive anything, as long as the sinner's heart was true.

"Well, _you_ 'd know." Jack snorts. He leans away from David and sits up straight, face closed off again. There's coldness in his gaze when he asks, "Do you think there's anything at all you could do that God wouldn't forgive?"

David blinks. "I don't know—I really hope not."

Jack's bared teeth are almost a smile. "I think we could help each other," he says, his eyes glittering with a private joke. "Silas thinks there is one sin God cannot tolerate in His chosen ones—and if he thinks you've fallen prey to it, he'll think God has forsaken you. He might even let you go."

Contrary to popular belief, David is not quite as innocent as the Shiloh court assumes him to be. A shiver runs down his back upon hearing Jack's comment, and his sharp, devious tone; David has no doubt about what's at stake here. 

He holds Jack's gaze without flinching, and doesn't ask him to clarify. "What's in it for you?" he asks instead, not really expecting an honest answer.

This time Jack does throw him a real—if downright filthy—grin. "Oh, the pleasure of defiling Gilboa's golden boy."

David huffs. " _Jack._ "

"Silas will be pleased to hear I'm taking an active role in keeping his crown safe by making you lose favour," Jack says, his tone indicating that all this is both obvious and beneath him. He tugs at his cuffs, straightens his tie, looking suddenly prim and proper, every inch the scornful prince. There's no trace of drunkenness in his countenance; the alcohol in David's blood seems to have evaporated by now, too. "Shall we get on with it, then? My guards will be here any minute."

Jack's many moods are giving David a bad case of whiplash. David's not worried about all the talk of sin, whatever Silas's beliefs and prejudices may be; back in Port Prosperity, people never made much of a fuss about others’ preferences in bed, and David doesn't think God neurotic enough to have a vested interested in whom or how people screw. David's one moral objection is of a different nature. "Michelle—" he starts, only to be interrupted by Jack's scoff.

"Anyone with half a brain will see through this—only Silas is too blinded by his hatred to see the obvious."

David thinks about it. The plan sort of makes sense, in a backwards sort of way; trying to outdraw Silas is risky, but this is just outlandish enough a gamble that it might earn David his freedom. And Jack's right—whatever they do to fool Silas has no bearing whatsoever on what David feels for Michelle, or she for him. Even if rumours of this somehow reach her in her exile, she'll understand.

David has many flaws, but indecision is not among them. Having thought about the situation, he has no qualms about doing this; he squares his shoulders, looks Jack dead in the eye and says, "All right."

Jack’s only reaction is to convey with an arched eyebrow and quick once-over that _he_ definitely won't be the first to strip.

David is so, so sick of Shiloh power-plays.

He unbuttons his Oxford, annoyance making his fingers clumsy, and tosses it aside. Seeing that Jack's made no move to follow suit, he clenches his jaw and steps out of his trousers and briefs as well. He stubbornly resists the impulse to cross his arms; he stands by the bed, naked, trying to look something other than horribly uncomfortable.

Judging by the amused look on Jack's face, David must look about as calm as a man about to face a firing squad. 

Jack waits for what feels like an eternity, taking swigs from his bottle, contemplating David like he’s an uninteresting sculpture, not an actual human being waiting on him. When Jack does decide to start taking off his own clothes, he does it leisurely, as if they have no time constraints. David hates that there's no hesitation or awkwardness in Jack's movements as he removes every piece of clothing, from vest to shoes, with the practiced ease of someone used to being gawked at. Most of all, David hates that he's watching Jack, curious despite himself, unable to look away.

Clothes finally gone, Jack stands by the bed, half-hard; only his taut leg muscles betray the fact that he's not thoroughly at ease. David's gaze travels from Jack's dick to his face, unsure. He doesn't know what to do first, how to behave—he's never done this before, obviously, and Jack, who presumably has, is just enough of a jerk to not be at all helpful. 

David takes a deep breath and considers: well, if he's going to go ahead with this, he might as well put in a decent effort.

Keeping an eye on Jack's reaction, David takes a step forward and falls to his knees. It gives him a thrill to see Jack's composure immediately give: Jack's eyes widen, he takes a sharp intake of breath, and his dick goes from half-mast to fully hard almost at once. Spotting David's grin, Jack narrows his eyes and tries to affect disinterest again.

"You just can't help getting on your knees for anyone in the House of Benjamin, can you?" he says scornfully, but David's in a prime position to gauge his true reactions instead of his words: he ignores the provocation, focusing instead on the task before him.

David's never done this before, but he's had it done to him enough that he knows what he likes; surely it can't be all that difficult to replicate? If years of barracks talk taught David one thing, it's this: the only absolute rule of blowjobs is to be careful with one’s teeth. That aside, it's only a matter of experience and enthusiasm, neither of which David has, really—but he's still willing to give it his best.

He quickly learns that yes, it can be quite tricky, starting with the taste and texture, down to the sheer weirdness of having something that unwieldy in one's mouth—everything about this is strange. It takes him a while to get a hang of the basic tongue and head motions, to get enough coordination to add in his hand as well—because that's certainly a more reliable motion to master. 

Once he's less overwhelmed, he glances up at Jack; the look of intense focus on his face is enough to make David's own dick jerk up with interest. David tries to suck slower, harder, deeper, but ends up wincing with the uncomfortable sensation of something hitting the back of his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Jack clenching his fists, for some reason. 

David tries toying with the head of Jack's dick, experimenting with quick, light licks around it without letting it leaving his mouth; Jack's abdominal muscles ripple as he tries not to react. Encouraged, David keeps on teasing for long enough that Jack has to give into frustration, grabbing David’s hair forcefully. 

In retaliation, David squeezes the base of Jack's cock, enjoying the way Jack closes his eyes at that, and pulls away, untroubled by the fact that Jack’s dick is almost slapping him on the face. He licks his lips, fingertips brushing against Jack's length as he ponders what to try next. He licks slowly once, twice; stops; Jack’s thighs are trembling, and David smiles.

It's possible that David's enjoying this more than he’d ever imagined he might.

Jack speaks up then. "I'm sure my father would be delighted to get reports about this," he says, perhaps aiming for nonchalance, but sounding hoarse and breathless. "But I think you can still look more debauched." His gaze lingers on David's lips, which feel tender and swollen. "Get on the bed," he orders, and David has no reason not to comply. He feels considerably less intimidated by the whole situation now that he's taken Jack down a peg.

He lies down and Jack quickly follows, biting hard at David's thighs and chest as he slides up over him. David's entire body arches upwards, seeking the warmth of Jack's skin, barely two inches above him; he throws his leg over Jack's to bring him down closer. They both inhale sharply as their cocks slide up against each other; Jack snakes his arm between them to jerk them off together and David keens, not even a little ashamed to thrust his hips in time with Jack’s hand. 

He kisses Jack, open-mouthed, desperate for another point of contact in their tangle of limbs; after a moment they’re just breathing into each other’s mouths, too overwhelmed to do more. David’s blunt fingernails grasp at Jack's shoulders, trying to get leverage for—something, he doesn't even know, but all of a sudden Jack moves downwards and takes him into his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut like he really, really loves nothing better than doing this, and _fuck_ , Jack is ridiculously good at this, David can’t—

He's close, so close, but the sound of steps and voices outside the door brings reality crashing down around him. He remembers why they’re here, why they’re doing this. And he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to listen to palace guards—people he rather likes, their superiors' orders notwithstanding—debating how best to inform on him to Silas. 

Jack notices his panic and comes back up, fingers splayed against David's neck, thumb brushing against his lower lip. "No, come on," he breathes out, rolling his hips against David's, leaning their foreheads together. There’s sweat above his upper lip, he’s breathing hard and fast, and this whole situation feels bizarrely, unexpectedly _real_ in a way that it wasn’t before. "Fuck them,” Jack hisses, “come _on_." 

David buries his face in the curve of Jack's neck, sinking his teeth into it, guessing Jack wouldn't mind—quite the contrary, if the moan that follows is any indication. He huffs out a laugh at the reaction, and Jack laughs too, chest rumbling beneath David’s fingers. His hands roam David's body, grounding him, and from that point on, Jack makes a point of being louder. David doesn't know if it's for his benefit or that of their impending audience, but it becomes easier to focus on the sounds, on the slick movement of their bodies against each other, on the flood of sensations coming at him from every direction. 

When Jack reaches down to finish him off, it only takes a few moments; Jack himself follows shortly afterwards, collapsing over David in a sweaty, sticky, dishevelled mess. David doesn't mind so much. In fact, it's probably fair to say he's never quite liked Jack as much as he does right now.

Dazed, David realises he doesn't even know if anyone did come in the room at some point. The door's closed, but his brain is high enough on hormones that he can't bring himself to do more than blink owlishly at it.

"One of them took pictures," Jack says with revulsion.

"Huh." David’s brain's still not fully functional. He rubs his eyes, yawns and says, "I honestly didn't see a thing."

Jack gives him a wicked grin and David grins back, almost involuntarily. Hormones. 

He isn't sure what the protocol is here. Should he thank Jack? Compliment him? Make awkward small talk? Discuss what to do once Silas hears about what happened? Ask him to stay, since the guards hadn't physically dragged him away?

Jack spares him the trouble of deciding by standing up after a few seconds. He cleans himself up with David's discarded shirt—of course—and gets dressed. It's almost like he does it with calculated speed: not so fast that David will think he's running away, but not so slow that it'll seem like he's lingering on purpose. David watches him, feeling oddly disgruntled; maybe at some point there it did feel like they might be actual friends someday.

"Jack," he calls anyway. The fact that he doesn't know what to follow that up with is so obvious that Jack doesn't even turn. He finishes buttoning his vest, reaches for his suit jacket, and only then faces David.

"Silas is not going to summon us together," he says dispassionately. "He's going to shame you in private, then in public." He doesn't say Silas will order Jack himself to add some colour to David's public shaming; they both know it. "Don't act like you're sorry."

David sits up, acknowledging how rare it is for Jack to give advice. "I'm not," he replies, honestly.

Something crosses Jack's eyes, too fleeting for David to catch—but after this evening, it’s become a little easier to notice when Jack’s suppressing a reaction. When, after a brief moment of silence, Jack sneers, "That makes one of us," David guesses that it’s probably a deflection. 

He still winces; Jack leaves without another word.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the beta, [firstlightofeos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos)!


End file.
